Antigravity
by Azarathian Angel
Summary: Navy hero, James Hawkins, and pirate captain, Nickolas Avery, meet up in a clash of weaponry and insults as the Procyon Expanse threatens to rise again... spelling out trouble for the Empire and Pirates alike.
1. Earthbound

An aim in life is the only fortune worth finding.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

The RLS _Victory_ was sailing close-hauled directly into the solar winds, causing an unfortunate drop in speed—though it was necessary. The merchant-class Pinnance was earthbound, just inside of the atmosphere of Cape's Lost Moon and coming about to Port Carib from the south. Though her make was usually small and utilized as a tender, the _Victory _was a bit larger type, though she still had little in the way of heavy armament. Having just left the Horseshoe Nebula en route from Porto Bello, a less than reputable isle, she was ready to make port and deliver cargo to an accredited buyer who, risk-taker he may be, was legitimate enough for her captain to trust.

The captain of the vessel couldn't be called anything less than an intrepid risk-taker himself, in fact. During what came to be called the Battle at Procyon, he had risen through the naval ranks remarkably fast, earning a medal or two along the way and seeing much more of the fighting he had been anxious for than previously expected. No longer at arms with the Procyons, there seemed to be no other entity that posed an immediate threat to the Empire, and this being so, Commander Hawkins left the Interstellar Navy.

Amelia Smollet had once done the same thing, though her reason was more because of a disagreement on the importance between protocol and results, and just as she had returned when the Ironclad raiders had appeared, he had no doubt that he would join once again when the time called for it. But, with the Procyon's identity as the mysterious Ironclads being revealed, the horizon held no visible threat in sight, and he didn't see it happening any time soon. After all, the past eight years had been quieter than a breeze off the Tamarind Islands.

The breeze _today_, however, was more like a gale.

"Haul in that sail a bit more!" The booming voice of the first mate rang out over the roaring wind. He was a tall Cragorian, still fairly young in his mid-twenties with hard skin an ashen-gray. With his usual stoic-expression, he turned to the captain just slightly, sharp eyes keeping watch at the progress with the sails, saying, "I fear we are close to being stalled, sir, with these unpredictable winds."

"Not much we can do—not during this time of the year," James Hawkins said to him, the two of them looking the same as they had when fighting under the Navy's flag, old uniforms and all. "And with the dock directly upwind… well, I've never even seen a ship this size winched into dock, personally. It'll be interesting to see if we make it."

Mr. Onyx regarded the captain's smile with a raised brow. "Your sense of humor is as displaced as ever."

"You know me. Anything to quell the boredom." Captain Hawkins chuckled, catching the slight grin tugging at his first mate's stern face. Perhaps that statement was a bit of exaggeration. Cargo runs like these may have been quieter, but they were still lively enough, what with the strange ports they got to see. It was the less frequent commissions that he liked best, however, usually by mapmakers or other adventurers who wanted to journey to the edges of the civilized empire—those were when things got interesting.

Mr. Onyx continued shouting orders as they neared port, as usual, and Jim, feeling oddly unnecessary on deck, wandered toward the side, looking down at the green surface below. Cape's Lost Moon was a dwarf planet and an uncommonly inhabited one at that. It was rich with oxygen, water, and plant life—all obvious prerequisites—but also extremely fertile soil, having at one time been the hubbub of crop cultivation for the entire Denebola-system side of the Empire. The cities now were flourishing more than anything else, and the sight below was actually somewhat impressive. Port Carib had man-made channels dug deep into the earth, allowing large ships such as the RLS _Victory _to dock, and with the city itself hugging the side of the chasm, the whole thing looked like a wound on the planet's green surface.

Coming in closer to the main channel, the ship continued to drop altitude as a harbor tug boat came alongside, its pilot shouting further instructions. Docking was normally a simple enough procedure when in space, since solar winds were a tad bit more manageable than earth winds. Here, the ship would come down into the artificial canyon, instead of docking above the surface of, say, a spaceport where a docking platform could be raised up to it. The dock at this port was horizontal and more in the style of a marine port, but at least if the winds were less than favorable, the ship couldn't swing down and smash onto the boardwalk itself—or any other buildings.

The RLS _Victory_ docked without issue under Mr. Onyx's careful eye, the fair-sized ship looking quite large next to smaller transport vessels. Jim scanned the crowd for the familiar face of Creighton Wilcott, the man whose shipment of silks and other textiles sat in the cargo hold. After several minutes, though, it was clear he was nowhere to be seen in the mess of crowds.

Since Cape's Moon was an important way station for any traveler coming out of the RNSS Territory from the south of the Empire (and for those who had just crossed the broken territories that cut across the middle of it), the dwarf planet displayed a wide array of inhabitants in a collision of culture and commerce. A large portion of the middle class called this port home, though the dress of those here seemed extravagant enough just with its diversity. A number of men wore more traditional waistcoats, some long and narrow while others were short with large buttons, with or without colored wigs. Others wore anything from plain-colored frocks to _sherwani_ jackets with standing collars to kimonos with loose _hakama _pants. The women varied greatly more; several wore trousers while others were clothed head to foot in flowing robes complete with head coverings in a flashy show of rare outer planet dyes.

After a moment of searching, Jim found the man's daughter standing at the railing at the edge of the channel. He had probably glanced over her several times before and had not even realized it was her—Elena Wilcott carried with her a timid posture, causing her to be easily overlooked, and was small besides. She was pale like her father with freckles splashed across her face, and her hair was pulled back as usual in a bonnet. Once the gangplank was up and ready and things in enough order, Jim stood out on the dock, hoping to catch her attention. Since it was captured by the bustle of the crowds and the docking of a nearby ship, however, he fought his way towards her.

"Miss Wilcott," he greeted her with a polite smile, hurriedly pulling off the hat he had forgotten he was wearing. She adjusted her glasses in her usual way before smiling back and curtsying just slightly.

"Captain Hawkins!" she said with a nod. "I hope your voyage went well? The star Rana did go supernova about ten parsecs from where you were, and I imagine without an atmosphere in the way, it must have been a fantastic sight!"

"I'm afraid we might have missed it. We were probably in the middle of the Horseshoe Nebula at the time."

Her face lit up at the idea of that. "Oh, she must have been a grand sight to see just by herself. Though I suppose to a spacer… nebulae are more trouble than a pretty sight is worth."

"That's true—I've had my own trouble in them, but this one is crossable with the right crew," he replied. "Having done it a dozen or so times before helps as well."

"I would imagine so, especially with a captain that is so expectorant—expiratory—I mean _experienced_!" she said with a nervous laugh, nodding and looking down at her feet as usual when the conversation dwindled down to nothing.

"Not to sound in a rush, Miss Wilcott, but is your father going to be late today? The man is usually so punctual."

She looked down, smoothing her dress with a gloved hand. "Father hasn't been feeling well, actually. He did want you to know that his men are on their way and would bring everything to our warehouse, and that once you were there, one of the managers would give you the rest of your papers—I mean payment."

"Of course, but—how is he?" He began to notice the absence of her usual pestering questions about the journey and what cosmological happenings they might have witnessed along the way.

"He… is sick," she replied, looking towards the _Victory _or perhaps the sky behind her. After a moment, she seemed to pull head back from the clouds. "Captain, did you happen to notice if Maia 20 was still visible? The scientific journal from the capital said she was close to becoming a black hole, and she seemed dark the last time we had a clear night, but then again the glass in my telescope tends to collect dust…"

"Sir." Onyx was suddenly standing behind him, handing him a small package. "You left this on the navigator's desk. Good morning, Miss Wilcott." He lifted his hat with a smile as Jim ran a thumb across the brown paper that covered the book in his hand.

"This is for you, actually," he said, handing the girl the package. Excitement washed over her face as she took it, running a gloved hand over its surface without opening it.

"…_Oh_. Many thanks, Captain Hawkins," she replied quietly with a smile, still looking surprised at the sudden gift when Jim had already made a habit of it—he always brought the girl something. "I—well, I suppose I should return home. If there is any trouble at the warehouse…"

"We'll find you at the shop."

She nodded, backing up and nearly tripping as she did so. Since both knew she'd catch herself, neither man even flinched—just smiled awkwardly.

"One thing, Miss Wilcott," Jim said as she was turning to go. "Would it be alright if I stopped in on your father, later?" He'd have to tell off the old coot for being sick—and give him a recount of all the things that went wrong on their route, of course, all the while listening to the man brag that he himself could have done it in half the time with half the crew back in his day.

"Whenever you're done, Captain," she said with a nod, disappearing into the crowd.

A moment of silence passed before Onyx gave Jim a knowing look out of the corner of his eye. "You're sweet on her," he said with a grin.

"I am not! She… reminds me of a family friend." It was true. Had the girl been Canid, he actually would've questioned Doppler's faithfulness to his wife. "And she's a nice kid."

"She's a woman." Onyx chuckled, causing Jim to shoot him an irritated look. "And you could use a nice woman in your life."

"You—" Jim couldn't think of a response to that, still slightly stunned by his friend's sudden brashness. "…Well. Say, where are you off to in such a hurry?" He hadn't neglected to notice Onyx already had his things with him, and though it wasn't as if he was really needed here, Jim usually appreciated the company.

"I'm sure the postman has a stack of letters with my name on it—and by the time I get through them, I will hardly have time to write a response before the office closes."

Jim didn't really have a good counterargument to that—Onyx's wife was a woman that would put the fear of God into you, with a side of respect for herself as well. Instead, he just emphasized a sigh, rolling his eyes as he muttered, "Short leash." Just loud enough for his past classmate to hear, of course.

Onyx chuckled as he left, lifting a hand in farewell.

"One day," the man said in his gruff voice, sounding decades older than Jim despite their close age.

With a derisive snort, he turned back to the ship, heading down the dock to where the crew was quickly unloading heavy crates from below deck. That was one day that never had to come, he decided. This—the open etherium with a trustworthy ship under his boots—this was all he needed.

.o.(o0o).o.

The first of Nickolas Avery's frustrations began with an intricate scheme resulting from the narcissistic and kleptomaniac tendencies of the subsequent parties involved.

Or for simplicity's sake, it began three parsecs past the edge of the Denebola galaxy.

Four days ago.

The last sail of _The Star of Celt_ fell dark against the backdrop of space, cutting vital energy to her engines as the speedy craft slowed to a crawl in light of the blackguards pursuing her. The merchant ship was a Barque, identical to her hunter in nothing—years of experience, the pirate's upper hand in the form of extra sail and weapon, or size—though the last was dominated by the merchant. Smoke jumped in a rapid dance from the second mast of the civilian ship, her first being the only one left intact seeing as how her below-deck sails had been carried away by an asteroid fragment only half an hour earlier—much to the pleasure of her pursuers. _The Bloody Mary_ closed in on her prey, twin metal pincers on the starboard side extending and clamping down into the railing and deck of the later. With this last move, the battle was decided as _The Celt _ran up her white flag.

The pirate ship's captain had been standing at the helm only moments ago, a look on his face dark enough to suggest he was channeling the spirit of Flint himself. Though he could barely claim three decades—if even that he truly had—he kept an air of intimidation about him that few dared to say was unearned. Presently, he made his was down the staircase to the deck, his crew taking a sort of subconscious notice of him, shifting about so as to not be in his way.

"Same routine, lads!" Captain Avery shouted to the crew who responded in a spirited cry as they rushed the other ship's deck, surrounding the few merchant crewmen who stood with arms raised high. An eye-catching scar ran the length of the man's cheek from below his eye to his jaw line, close enough to mouth that it twisted his lips into half of a devilish grin. Were he looked at from his right, perhaps a woman could have fancied his scruffy appearance, and unlike his first mate, he cared little over orderly appearances. He regularly wore two disheveled coats over a loose shirt—all in varying colors of dark—and he kept a pistol at each hip with a rumored-to-be-lucky cutlass resting at his left. He kept a scarred hand resting atop it's gold hilt and slid the other across his forehead, catching sweat that clung to the blonde hair that hung above his eyes.

"Feel free, my fellow subjects, to empty your pockets while we empty your holds. Watches, rings—what have you. Be smart about it, too—my men have no aversion towards cutting fingers," Captain Avery shouted with a sneer across to the other ship, walking the length of the starboard side as his men clamored over the side.

"…Sir, is that an order?" A small, unsure man of perhaps four decades approached him with confusion plastered across his bony face.

"Certainly not, Mr. Jenson," the captain said aside to him in a lower tone. "The first man to spill blood on this deck gets keelhauled through a flock of zaftwings, and do you know why?"

"…Cap'n?"

"The minute you start cutting fingers, this deck'll look like ole Lucy's _Graverobber _after he slit all thirty men's throats. And what'll happen then? I shall get blood on my boots, Mr. Jenson, and _then_ what would you have me do?" Avery gave the man a stern look, staring him down until he nodded quickly and scurried away.

"…Right, Sir."

"That was a lovely excuse, Captain." The first mate approached him with a slight smirk on his thin lips, the man in every way a contradiction to his superior. Markose Napier stood with his hands politely clasped behind his back, with a clean and shaven face grinning at Avery's unkempt hair and whiskered mug.

"No, I really meant that one," he replied, looking down at the dark black leather. "I got these boots in Lijiang, remember? Don't make 'em like that out thisaway."

Napier seemed to manage to nod without rolling his eyes, black hair slicked back in a tidy manner that made one think he kept most snide comments to his thoughts. If most thought the captain to be young, the first mate looked younger still, though his intelligence vastly outranked any jack aboard. He was dressed in a close-fitting, dark blue jacket that reached the top of his charcoal boots, and with not a weapon seen about him, he was commonly mistaken for the ship's doctor.

Avery smirked at the thought of how many times that had happened, his thoughts interrupted when he caught the sound of a woman's voice.

"That look on your face is only making it harder to look _at,_" remarked a woman about their age, dressed less like a civilian today though still refusing to dress like a man, he noted. "I beg you to stop."

"I was wondering where you'd been off to, Lenny. I almost made it to mid-day with my self-confidence unattacked," he replied. She just sort of nodded, half-listening to him as she looked over his shoulder at the ruckus caused by the crew searching the other ship.

"Though I must thank you," Avery said, taking her hand and leaning down as if to kiss it. She pulled it away quickly, giving him some kind of stare that had several more words pinned to it. He let his fingers curl around the air as he shook it off with a laugh. "I suppose I'm in your debt for the time being. Beautiful ship, she is," he said, shifting the conversation with a glance towards _The Celt_.

"You know I hate to disappoint," the tall woman answered, bowing in an entirely un-womanly fashion and adding on a mock curtsy with a swish of her bright skirts. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders as she did so, the color much more natural than Napier's due to her tanned skin. "Though part of meself is admittedly disappointed when they up and surrender."

"You would rather our crew risk further injury for your own amusement?" Napier gave her one of his famously investigating looks, dark irises all but disappearing as his eyes narrowed to slits.

"I wouldn't waste my worries on your crew anyhow, but you know I've no control over the idle fancies my mind toys with."

"I find myself less than shocked," he said in a lower tone, glancing back to the captain.

"But I'll have my share, so I'll walk away no less happy for it," she replied. "Though I believe you owe me extra for putting up with your little eloquence act every time you pick up a new crew. It annoys me to the edge of the galaxy."

Avery pressed his lips together like he was suppressing a difference response. "Some women find it proper to respect a man," he said. "Or at the very least, a captain when you're on his ship."

"The sweet trade strips me of that title, and I being not part of your crew find it less than necessary to _respect_ you."

"Ain't much surprised," he muttered, still looking at her with an intense look when he addressed his first mate, saying, "Napier, I believe—"

"Cap'n!"

The three turned around to see one of the spacers hailing them from the other ship, running up to the side with the look of a kicked dog—or one about to be.

"Cap'n, tisn't any trav'lers aboard her anywheres. Just her crew, alls on deck," the young man finished, nodding respectfully and taking a half-step back. Avery and Napier exchanged a look before turning around to Lenny, who also took a half-step in the other direction.

"Weren't it you who said _The Celt_'d be heading for Bonsang? Full o' the wealthy on their way back from summer estates in the Oiseau islands?" Avery tried to contain the frown twitching at his lips, returning her stern gaze. "I'm pretty sure that was you."

He turned back to the sailor on the other ship's deck, saying, "You there—Henry—what's she got in her hold?"

"Enough for a month 'least, cap'n."

Bonsang was only a week's journey from here, even taking into account solar winds—which would be early for this time of year. Turning back to Lenny, he didn't even get a word in before she started.

"No matter what you try to pin to me, tisn't my fault. Officially, they were supposed to be headin' for Bonsang. That's what her papers said when she left port," Lenny said, looking not the least bit unconfident despite her error. "If she's gone against her own plans, that ain't no problem of mine."

Avery opened his mouth to argue with her but shut it with a glare, figuring he would get more answers out of someone else. "I s'pose we should meet with her captain, don't you, Napier? Have him—"

"Captain!" A different voice shouted, making him roll his eyes. "There's one guest aboard, sir! Civilian!"

Avery was already heading towards his office, wiping sweat from his brow with a terrible scowl on his face. "Bring 'em, too."

The captain of _The Celt_ was a largely overweight man of perhaps fifty—a canid, whose nose looked so squished back into his face that he appeared to be looking down at the rest of the room over it. His brown hair was pulled back, but bits of it had come loose, giving him a frazzled look. He stood with an outraged mien in front of the captain's desk, looking down at the man in every sense of the phrase.

Avery looked up at him with a polite smile which came off as a sneer, his boots resting on the desk as he slouched in the high-backed chair and gave up on any façade of formality. The light that poured in from outside did little to brighten the crowded room. Already small, Avery's stateroom was horribly cluttered, filled to the ceiling with odds and ends from every corner of every backwoods marketplace; empty cages with odd metal work, bottles with questionable contents, drapes and extra hammocks, and even a potted blue Celten plant that had taken over a corner near the door.

"Your men have done a smart job of emptying my ship," Captain Fletcher stated with contained rage, his ship's one lone guest standing awkwardly behind him with a disappointed expression. "And since I believe we have complied with you thus far, I believe it would be honorable of you to—"

"Shut up, please," Avery replied with a hand to his head, earning a sigh from his first mate who stood next to him, straight as ever. Ignoring the livid look on the man's reddening face, he nodded in his direction. "Where were you going?"

"Well, I-! That's not—we were heading towards Bonsang," the man said, glancing back at his traveler who clutched a book tightly in one hand.

"Not with that much provision," Lenny interrupted from the other side of the stateroom—the fact a woman added to the conversation making the other man's face turn almost purple with anger.

"I… how could—!"

"I commissioned the good captain and his crew," the young man standing behind him said, his voice light and everything about his appearance adding to the assumption that this boy—barely a man—had never seen hard work in his life. This fact would suggest he was wealthy, though being Crocutan, a hyena-like cousin of the Canid race that had seen better days, should have suggested the opposite.

"Ah, so you're the source of my troubles, then," Avery said, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. The boy, despite his awkward and bookish appearance, didn't look all too daunted. "And just where did you need to get so quickly, Master…?"

"Hastings."

"Master Hastings, that you commissioned _The Celt _so last minute and forced a lot of wealthy travelers to other modes of transportation?"

This was when the boy seemed to hesitate, shifting his weight in the silence and switching the leather-bound book from one hand to the other. "Family matters."

Avery picked up on something, though he couldn't be sure exactly what it was.

"Aye, family matters… say, let me have a look at your book there."

The boy's eyes widened just slightly, and Avery looked over to Napier since he sensed he was getting an odd look. Finding himself to be right, he just shrugged in response.

Hastings and Fletcher exchanged looks, and the former seemed to try to slink back towards the shadows by the door. "I… why?"

"Let _me_ take a look at it, if you would," said Napier, stepping up towards the lad with a hand outstretched. Avery wondered if the boy seemed to know Napier had a love of books and such as well, for he seemed a lot less hesitant, handing it over with a disappointed look returning to his face.

Napier opened it carefully, flipping through a few pages slowly with his brows drawn together in confusion. Eventually, his expression shifted to amazement, handing it across the desk to Avery.

"How do you always know?"

Avery lifted a brow, taking it and looking over the diagram on the open page. It was a detailed drawing of a ship—a pirate ship, to be precise, seeing as how it had added weaponry and included a small drawing of the jolly roger atop the mast. The ship was also clearly marked with the name _Hispaniola_.

"Flint's ship?" he muttered, flipping the page as Napier elaborated.

"This is the journal of Henai Wycomb."

"I thought his name was Hastings," he said, half-listening as he flipped a few more pages.

"Henai Wycomb was a famous inventor," Napier said with a hint of irritation. "Richest woman on her planet, too, if rumors hold true."

"They are," Hastings said automatically, stopping himself after with an embarrassed look.

"She was also Flint's first mate," Napier added.

"What's she your grandmother or something?" the captain asked with a smirk, looking at the Crocutan boy who looked away shamefully in response.

"Avery," his first mate continued, leaning over and flipping back a few pages to a hexagonal diagram. "She left her whole fortune and highly advance technology—quite valuable, I might add—on her planet which no one has ever located."

"So you boys were on a treasure hunt, eh?" he asked with a chuckle, examining the drawing. It looked like an astronomical compendium, a standard-enough device for the average spacer. This one was box-like, with six sides. Each device was connected to one of the sides and swung out like pages in a book, apparently including calendrical tables, an astroblade, some type of universal clock, and different plates with other various charts and useful conversions. These however, appeared to only make up half of the device. The other half remained closed in the drawing on the page, but when he turned to the next, he could see what lay inside the other compartment. A depression with odd symbols lay inside, and the drawing depicted what looked like small stars coming from it, floating up above the device to form three small triangles.

"This thing is the map she used to get back," Napier said, a long finger tapping the surface of the text.

"This _thing_," Avery replied, flipping back to the page that showed the compendium's cover. "…looks familiar." The lid of the device had a sun carved into it with intricate line-work taking up the rest of the space. In the center of the sun were the initials H.W.

"…You idiot, Avery," Lenny suddenly remarked, stepping up behind him and looking over his shoulder.

"What'd I do?" He was abruptly aware of her presence hanging over him and consciously made an effort to keep his eyes glued to the page.

"You almost won this thing in a game of chance back when we were in Journuit, remember? Guy said half the thing wouldn't open. Idiot didn't even know what he had when he had it."

"You sure?" That last time in Journuit was mostly a blur, thanks to a local drink called a Starburst or Starblast or some other such name which contained ingredients of questionable legality.

This was going to pester him all night, to be sure. That carving was too terribly familiar. Why couldn't he put a place or time to it? "You—Hastings—you got the map?" Captain Fletcher was still fuming beside the lad, either from the fact he was being ignored, or his chance of getting a share of this bounty was as good as gone.

Hastings shook his head, saying, "That was what we were looking for."

Avery looked to Napier, asking nothing, but expecting his opinion on the matter.

"Nickolas," he said in a hushed voice, "If you want my thoughts on this, it is… perhaps foolish. It would take a lot of searching to find this thing, and if we did, the journey there would certainly be less than safe, and…"

"Worth it?" he asked with a brow raised.

Napier was silent for a moment before a grin broke through his stern visage. "I would believe so."

Avery returned the smile, his boots kitting the floor with a thud as he sat up. "Well, Captain," he said loudly, hand slapping the cluttered desk. "I'll have you escorted back to your ship, don't you worry yourself."

"And what of me and my men afterwords?" the man exclaimed. "Surely you intend to leave us some provision—the nearest port is at least four days away!"

"Haven't you heard of me _Blood Mary_? Why, she and a previous crew flew the abyss outside o' Lancashire lost for five days 'fore we found port," he said with a chuckle, standing and leaning across the desk with a smirk. "If we lowly, pirate dogs can handle that, surely you fine gentlemen can handle four little days in space. A few boots might be served for rations, but what's a life at the mast if you don't face a little hardship once in a while, eh?"

Fletcher's face turned red once more as Napier strode across the room to open the door.

"Oh, and have Master Hastings' things brought aboard to the guest cabin," Avery added as a tall Cragorian stood outside waiting for the good Captain Fletcher. Hasting's eyes widened at that, but so did those of the woman standing next to Avery.

"And where should you have me sleep?" Lenny demanded with a dark look, arms crossed as she stared him down.

"Well seeing as how you refuse to treat me like a guest would, and you ain't part of the crew, I suppose you can sleep on the deck, now, can't you?" He grinned evilly back at her, shutting the journal with a snap.

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

**A/N: **All that nautical lingo. I have no idea what I was talking about, honestly.

This takes place _**after**_ TP: Battle at Procyon by the way. You should play it (Jim has a goatee that is hysterical-crying-laughter-worthy), but I think most things will be explained well enough even if you haven't. A quick snippet (Um. Spoiler.):

"An on-again, off-again state of war has plagued both empires for the past ten years which began over a dispute of ownership concerning the Mucculough Etherium Current" (being ended with Jim's discovery that the mysterious metal ships attacking Empire ships were in fact the Procyons, whose diplomatic fleet was on their way to sign a treaty with the queen).


	2. Simple Complications

Date: 01.0-020.50

Place: R.L.S. _Amphitrite _

We had heard about the legends for years growing up. I just never would have believed them to be true. A planet made entirely of metal—a machine, filled with technology that was all too familiar. It explained quite a lot, actually—including why Nathaniel had sought me out, but that does not really matter anymore.

Connaissance is as good as dead. And it all started with me.

-Henai Wycomb

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

"Sorry, your name again, sir?"

"James Hawkins," he replied as the man skittered back to another room once more.

The Postman's building, despite its plentiful lighting, always seemed dim due to the dark grey wood used in its construction. The odd colored trees were plentiful in the area, but certainly didn't do much in the way of aesthetic architectural beauty. Jim leaned against the counter in the front room, covered in stacks of papers, parcels, pens, and ink. He didn't expect anything, really. A letter from his mother, maybe, though her last had been quite recent and made it clear things were busy—and the post out here was slow anyhow. What he _really _didn't expect was a large wooden container about three feet high.

The man pulled the metal dolly out from underneath the box, and with two fingers, tapped the paper atop it which required his signature. Jim stepped close and tried to read the address it had come from, but it was written with a very poor hand, and he couldn't make out more than a letter or two. His name on it, however, was just legible enough for it to have made it here.

"Wait," he said before the man ducked into the back room again. "Was there anything with it that said what this was?" The man shook his head, disappearing, and instead of mulling over what it could be, Jim grabbed a crowbar off the desk. Morph was chittering near his ear enthusiastically, and once the nails gave way a bit, the lid lifted enough for something to shoot up out of the box.

Morph shrieked, and Jim fell back against the opposite wall, nearly slipping on a pile of loose papers while his heart tried to kick-start itself again. The lid clattered to the floor, causing the thing that was standing in the box to jump as well.

"Whoops! Ha, ha!" The copper robot standing in front of him laughed loudly, shrinking back a bit before coughing awkwardly and bending an arm as if to see a muscle there. "Didn't know my own strength…"

"_B.E.N.!_" Jim scolded, standing quickly as the manager came running back in. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be on the other side of the system!"

"He wasn't in the box, was he? You weren't in that box, were you?" he said frantically, turning to the timid bot. "Do you know how many codes that breaks? Machines with personalities can't be shipped through the post anymore!"

"Oh, uh, well, tickets these days, ha!" B.E.N. tapped his fingers together uneasily with a click, his bright blue eyes shining in the poor lighting. "And you kn-know, I just don't do so good seeing the open sky and all. BAD memories and such. Aha. Ha…"

"No, no, no," the man said, becoming more irritated with every second. "You need to get out of here—you need to get him out of here. I'm not going to get demoted just because some dim-witted machine managed to seal himself in a box—"

Jim interrupted, turning to B.E.N. and saying, "How _did _you shut that box, when you were—?"

"Just get him out!"

.o.(o0o).o.

The _Bloody Mary _was a thing of deadly beauty.

While most Lijiang-built Junks were tiny, simple, things, she was a might bigger and boasted intricate woodwork as well as a display of bright red sails. Though few knew it, she had originally been built for a lesser-known ambassador who had a taste for the extravagant—or at least the extravagance his pocketbook could reach. The posh diplomat had a dome of glass built around his stateroom which sat on the high stern, with the office above the cabin accessible only by a hatch in the floor. The curved structure was paned with yellow glass and served as a window to both the office and the bedroom chamber a floor below it, and although the odd architecture would be quite prone to destruction in the event of a battle, the designer really hadn't any such concerns since he had expected it to be guarded by several other ships. She had another smaller dome to match at her bow, but this one served as a window to a smaller area known as the forecastle or crew's quarters.

All of the railing on the ship was done in gold, while other designs on her sides were red to match the sails, though the battens that served as ribs to the sails were painted black. She had no bowsprit for she had no forestay to aid the mast or any extra sail that might be rigged to it. She held only three masts—two slightly forward and a shorter near her stern. A fourth sail was rigged to her keel, resembling a jagged fin on the underbelly of a predatory fish.

Additions, of course, had been made in her many changing of hands—mostly in the way of cannonballs and other shot as "payment". New engines harvested from a larger ship made for extra speed. Among her many cannons, a Laser Gatling Gun had been retrofitted to use extra shot per discharge. Pincers from various pirate ships straddled each side in deadly anticipation.

By the time she had come under Avery's command, he hadn't felt any real need to change her—with one exception. The main mast held a traditional Jolly Rodger—permanently, since the ship was so recognizable that there was no point in trying to pose as anything else—but the two others masts flew two or three small, colored flags each. Blue, green, yellow, orange. Upon closer inspection, there were golden characters from the Fúyin language painted on each. Though he rarely admitted it, Avery was prone to superstition, and having a bit of luck on his side helped him sleep more soundly.

At the current moment, however, it was doing him little good.

"What's in your head, _tonto_?"

He'd been vaguely aware of the door opening a few moments before, and seeing how there were only two people in the world who would dare open it without knocking—and one of them did so out of habit anyway—he didn't even bother turning around.

With one hand pressed against his temple, he leaned his head forward against the windowpane, saying, "Nothing, so you tell me." His shadow on the glass broke up the flickering orange light of the candles on his desk, allowing him to see the dark backdrop of the canyon they were anchored in. When he turned his head just slightly, he could see her reflection stepping up behind him.

"Every raider from here to Devil's Island knows about your map, ever since we left Hydra." Her voice was irritating at this point, and he still didn't turn around, enjoying the cold glass against his aching head. "You have a traitor on this boat, and it's going to get us all killed, mark me."

"Already taken care of it." He winced—even the sound of his own voice rattling in his head made the pain worse. She was quiet for a moment after that, perhaps figuring out what he'd meant by it before she answered.

"You have no idea the kind of men trying to find this thing. One in particular, I can think of, and his reputation precedes even the one you've concocted. He won't stop, Avery, until the _Bloody Mary _is unfit for parts, even, and your head hangs from his yardarm."

"I didn't know you were such an expert on these things, Lenny." He stood straight, bracing himself for the pain that exploded behind his eyes when he looked too near one of the flames. When he turned, she was a little closer than he'd realized, making the room seem a little smaller than it had been moments before. Her hair was down still, and it looked as though she'd gotten half-way through braiding parts of it, though he supposed that could have been intentional. She'd always had a taste for dress and appearance that he had never understood, but then again, so did most people.

Her jaw visibly tightened, and she gave him a look he couldn't quite pin down, answering, "It's my job to know what's going on. And it's _your _job to keep me alive to do mine."

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled back his chair, secretly happy to have the thing between them in case she decided to turn the conversation into a fight. "Is there anything else you'd like to berate me for?" He asked, hoping she'd leave.

"Yes, I'd like to know why, when I woke up, we were on a planet instead of an archipelago. Weymouth is west, not south—or have you forgotten?" She put her hands on her hips, looking cross at him as if she were teaching him this fact for the first time.

"I wanted to go to Carib."

"Weymouth has a busier port—we would have blended in a lot easier. Not to mention the fact that it's not crawling with nearly as many _Navy_," she retorted. "And you're _wanted_ in Carib."

"I'm wanted in a lot of places by a lot of people," he said with a cheeky grin. "But Carib's the best port for resupplying."

"At the very least we could have gone to Corbis on the other side! We would've gotten in and out a lot quieter in their mess."

"Carib's the only city on Cape's Lost Moon that'll dock a ship our size, but even if it weren't, this is my ship. Feel free to step off at any point, _Lenny._" He returned her glare with slightly less enthusiasm. "In fact, I'd feel the better for it, knowing I won't get in the middle of one of your half-brained cons again."

She said nothing, looking as if she might spit at his feet then and there—though he figured he'd seen that look enough to know she wouldn't do it. Shaking her head, she made for the door, her skirts rustling around her legs in a distracting manner. She slammed it on her way out, making him wince again.

Her being gone, he finally collapsed into the chair, resting his head in his palm as the air in the room seemed a little more breathable, his thoughts mulling over the happenings of the last four days.

"This will be interesting," he muttered to no one in particular.

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)


	3. Trusted Liars

Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but of playing a poor hand well.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

The harbor master, wide-eyed before the group of unwashed men, fell to his knees with blood gurgling in his throat as it spilled over his lips. The silent assembly around him made no move to help—not one twitched at the sight, for they were not the ordinary patrons of the bar in which they stood. No, _those_ had cleared out in terror moments before.

The room was brightly lit, but the dancing call of the flute that had added to the cheery atmosphere was silent. Choking, the man in the center of the room finally hit the floor as the one with the bloody sword turned away, passing off the soiled weapon to someone else.

Another swallowed the silence in his throat with ease, saying with a slight tone of irritation, "Well this was a waste of time." The first mate. The only one allowed to get away with such a remark.

"Quite the opposite." The man whose hands were now free wiped them against his long coat, brushing off any regret for the bastard whose blood was now soaking into the wooden boards. "We now know where she _isn't_."

Though out of view, he was aware of the dubious glances his men exchanged whenever he made statements like these. Common men couldn't see the logic. Common men weren't like Augustine.

Matthew Augustine was a canid, a proud and vain one—enough so to adopt the derogatory name given him by his enemies. His skin and fur were a dark brown mixed in with black and grays that revealed his years. By no means tall, he had a husky form that wasn't hidden by his layers of clothing. An overgrown tooth cut in front of his lower lip from above, and when it was said he had a mean bite, it wasn't always metaphorically. It was perhaps for this reason (or his short, explosive temper) that his men regarded him with wary looks from time to time.

The man who'd spoken before—Wayland—stepped over to him, his thin, bony frame appearing in the corner of his eye.

"If she did come this way, the only other place she could be is Carib. The party we sent will find her, no problem. We could make it in a few hours if we ship out now, sir."

"Hm?" He cleared his throat as his mind rejoined the conversation, his gruff voice saying, "Oh, yes."

There was a silence that settled around the group.

"Well, get going then!" he bellowed, taking a half step toward his men who scurried to the door like kicked dogs.

Wayland stayed behind for just a moment. "Are you certain this is worth the risk, Captain?"

"Hmph?" Augustine picked up an open bottle of rum from a nearby table before heading toward the door. "She's got it, alright, don't you doubt that." He didn't trust his first-mate much more than he trusted anyone else—which was to say slightly more than not at all.

"Not the map, sir. I was thinking more along the lines of the repercussions to follow if… anything were to happen to her?"

"Oh that," the old man commented as he stepped out into the cool night, the small town alive with noise and light unlike its sister city on the other side of the moon. "Her daddy owes me a good bit o' debt. He won't be sendin' any trouble our way."

Few crossed Ortega and lived.

Not that Augustine cared much.

.o.(o0o).o.

The port of Carib was still relatively busy late into the afternoon—one of the many reasons Jim enjoyed the place. The street lamps weren't yet lit, and the city was bathed in the warm glow of sunset, though certainly places lower in the canyons had already been plunged into night. Jim walked briskly down the boardwalk along the road, B.E.N. close in tow as he pulled his thoughts together.

Up ahead, there was a large group standing near the entrance to one of the local bars, some sitting at outdoor tables, and Jim decided to keep his lecture silent until they passed. The crowd seemed civilized enough that he stayed on that side of the street, though he almost regretted the decision when a small form nearly knocked into him as it ran towards the group. The young, gangly boy ran about the mass, probably looking for a familiar face when he confronted one of the tables, nearly knocking over several other people and shouting loudly in broken sentences.

"Speak the Queen's English, boy!" Someone yelled back to him.

"I saw her! Just down one of the side channels not a mile from here! It was her, I swear to it!" The young man looked scared and excited at the same time—and possibly dazed with drink.

"Saw who? The Queen?"

"The_ Bloody Mary_!" He replied, raising laughter from the group.

"That ship and her captain went to ruin in the Proc expanse—everyone knows that," one man retorted, while others argued.

"No, she went down near the broken territories, she did."

"Lad's seen a ghost ship, he has!"

"No!" The boy piped up. "It was her—a Lijiang Junk with red sails! I saw her!"

"Did you see her captain, too? Ha!"

"No, 'course he didn't. He'd be dead! Avery ne'er left any pris'ners."

Their voices faded away.

"What in the _etherium_ possessed you to shut yourself in a _box_?"

"_Gah!_" The pesky robot caught his foot on a loose board, flying forward into Jim's back. He steadied himself, brushing himself off timidly. "You know, your mother keeps a _lovely_ home, and I'm no bot to turn down good work, but things get, uh, well, boring."

Morph flitted about around his shoulder before looping a circle around B.E.N.

"Before my stretch you-know-where, I was _quite _the traveler, you know. I remember this one time—"

"B.E.N.," Jim interrupted before he could launch into a three hour tale. "You're…"

Despite his metal inner-workings, he seemed to sense Jim's tone, his expression turning guilty. He swallowed his words, figuring it would be more trouble than it was worth convincing him to go home. Their own navigator was considering retirement. Perhaps it was best to accept the cards as they came.

He changed the subject. "Look, I have an engagement tonight that I—"

"Jimmy, you found a girl!" He shouted, jumping.

He found his hand on his forehead, wincing. "A _meeting_, B.E.N."

"Oh."

He shook his head, looking back to the road ahead. "If you swear to behave, you can come along." _Or at the very least be quiet._

"Oh, goodie!" His loud exclamation riling up Morph, who let out his own small cry of excitement. "So, who—oof!" B.E.N. caught a passerby's shoulder, flying forward only to catch his foot on another loose board. He ended up in a folded little pile on the ground, shaking his head dizzly while the man kept walking without so much as a word. Jim offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet, and B.E.N. proceeded to dust himself off as they kept walking.

Jim began to notice, however, that his companion's eye kept wandering back over his shoulder with each man they passed, his mien turning more nervous than was usual. Eventually, the young captain was forced to question the odd behavior.

"What's on your mind, B.E.N.?" He almost regretted asking.

The streetlight dropped down onto the robot's surface harshly as he turned back to his friend. "Oh, you know, Jimmy, I just uh—um, I… you don't see many pirates this way, do you? I mean, you'd think I'd be able to spot 'em right quick, huh? But, uh… well, sometimes they're hard to uh… point out."

Was that English?

"Not frequently, no," he answered, following the wooden walkway as it turned to paved sidewalk around the corner. "Why?"

"Well, uh," he stuttered as he tapped his fingers together, walking a little faster to catch up. "There was an… incident. Back at Benbow, with these pirates..."

Jim stopped walking, apparently startling the robot as he jerked back to look at him with wide eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Is she okay?"

"Who?"

_Dear God_.

"Oh! Your mother?" B.E.N. exclaimed, his expression returning to a happy smile for a moment. "Sure thing, Jimmy! 'Course she is. I woulda told you, buddy, if anything _really _bad had happened—"

"Then what happened?" Getting information out of this thing was like pulling fangs from a Kelicerata.

"Oh, _that!_ Well, there was uh… uh, um." He started stuttering and couldn't seem to pull his words together.

"_B.E.N._" The look on Jim's face helped coerce the words a little.

"Some men came in one day—didn't hurt anybody, though, but, boy, they were sure grumpy. Spacer's fury, we used to call it, back in the day—oh, right, the point," he said with an impish smile under Jim's stern look. "Well, they were apparently looking for me. Couldn't tell you why to save my life, Jimmy! But your mother, boy, she sure saved me! Hid me in a broom closet until they… um, well, anyway. The end."

"What would pirates want with you, B.E.N.?" In backwoods places on the outer edges, robots were sometimes still considered property—regardless of an artifical personality or not—and it certainly wasn't unheard of to have that property stolen. However, Montresser was close enough to trade lines and was under enough Empire control that it didn't quite make sense.

"Dunno, Jimmy, though it wouldn't surprise me if it had to do with you-know-where. Years later and it's still following me! Seeing a bowl of green salad still does me in sometimes…"

Jim shook his head, rolling his eyes. "So you're laying low with me, is that it?"

The AI threw his arm around Jim's shoulders. "Don't look so down! You and me," he said, extending the other arm to sweep across the sky fancifully. "Running from pirates. The good old days, huh, buddy?"

Jim shrugged him off, but with a friendly smile. "At least we'll have experience this time."

"That's the spirit!"

.o.(o0o).o.

The aforementioned scheme, being which the worst of Captain Avery's frustrations, was first _initiated_ with a chase at four in the morning. In all of twenty seconds, he'd managed to disentangled himself from the sheets, locate his trousers without a candle, and gather up his belt, cutlass, and pistol—all the while shouting awake the men who would have rather been in port.

"Find her, you idiots!" His deep voice bellowed once again as he ascended the stairs from below deck, ignoring the smirk on his first mate's cleanly-shaven face as the man looked down at him from the bridge. "Or I'll throw you to the zaftwings next time we pass near Cangaria!"

There was much scurrying about after this—nervous hands running across the deck in search for something that may as well been a shadow. He had just reached the helm when he shouted after them.

"She didn't just step off, you wharf-rats! Find her!"

"Honestly, Avery," the other man sighed, looking down at the slower men on deck scrambling about to catch up. "I cannot understand why you continually allow that woman back on our ship."

Avery finally managed to hook the belt the cutlass hung from, tucking his shirt in sloppily as he feigned a look of indifference towards the haughty smirk on the taller man's face. "Perhaps I like to try and see the best in people," he suggested while trying to catch his breath.

"Then you are blind, my friend," his first mate replied, smiling to himself as the night's wind pushed his dark hair in front of his face.

"And you, my criticizing eyes," he said, chuckling despite the fact it made it more difficult to breathe. "And you know you what they say. Ignorance is bliss and all that."

"I believe that only applies if the _ignored _isn't an impulsive thief, _Captain,_" the other retorted. "Speaking of which—what did she take from you this time?"

"Hm?" Avery resurfaced from his thoughts, regarding his first mate with a confident grin. "Oh, that—I've no idea."

His answer was met with a tired sigh. "How do you even know she took anything then?"

"Because I refuse to believe I saw her room is empty _coincidentally_ after I heard someone rummaging around in my stateroom. Besides," he said, grinning at Napier. "I thought you just said she was an impulsive thief."

The other man suppressed a chuckle and nodded.

"Captain!" A muffled voice from the group of men still half below-deck rose up to them on the bridge. "She's nowhere to be found. And one of our longboats is missing, sir!"

He swore beneath his breath, half turning away from the railing as he put a hand over his mouth as he thought.

"You shouldn't bother." As always, his first mate was ready to answer the idea that had sprung into his mind.

"But I always do. Well… as always, Markose," Avery said with a mock salute, running back down the stairs towards the gangplank. "You're in charge—don't sell the ship, drink the rum, and the usual."

"You're not going to find her," he shouted back at him. "You never do!"

Avery waved in response, heading below deck to the longboat bay—all the while cursing that woman, her entire family, and any of her offspring a fool might attempt to father someday.

He took along the cabin boy, a tan Canid who'd had his tongue cut out under unknown circumstances (it wasn't as if he could tell them, after all). He dragged the young boy along by the shirt, so that when he finally located the longboat that Lenny had taken, he would have someone to fly this one back as well. There were better experienced men to fly the small craft, but he didn't feel like speaking to anyone.

They cut along the edge of the canyon at the surface until, just at the edge of town, he spotted a dark shape moored to a dead tree clinging to the top of the cliff. It was empty of course, but here he disembarked, telling young Ferwin to take their longboat back to the ship. He walked from there on the dusty surface of the planet until he finally reached civilization, his eyes sharp for the one woman that made him nervous.

The streetlamps were dim, and he walked along the boardwalk instead of taking the road deeper into the city. She wouldn't be there. It was the most logical plan, after all, so she would be determined to do the opposite. She wouldn't seriously think he would bother following her, either. She would be here at the pier, seeking out a ship she could talk (or sneak) her way onto. Predictable, but still hard to pin down.

There were still people milling about the boardwalk at this time of night—or morning, rather—and he took on a casual pace as he glanced at the smaller ships at dock, the giants floating gently, deeper in the canyon. As he followed the road a bit longer, he passed more lit buildings—a few restaurants, but mostly pubs that were less rowdy than what he was used to. The groups of people gathered outside of them became larger, and he was forced to slow down as he scanned the crowds for a familiar face.

He'd find her if it was the last thing—

A copper AI clipped his shoulder as he turned his head to look back at a woman with dark hair. The robot barely caused him to blink, but the thing itself managed to trip over its own feet the second after, crashing loudly to the wooden boardwalk with a clang. He didn't slow, rolling his eyes in annoyance as he searched for her. Goddamn that woman! Where was—?

There was a quick movement behind a small group huddled around the door of a small bar up ahead. A flash of black hair that disappeared into the adjacent alleyway.

Got you.

He took off after her, taking the alley before the building and racing to the end, hoping to catch her there as she took a right. Unfortunately, she had gone left, and he was forced to run after her as the backstreet became increasingly narrow. She took another alley, this time coming out into a different street. He nearly crashed into a group of woman along the sidewalk as he exited, though, ignoring their high-pitched yelps of surprise and irritation as he followed the trail of disrupted pedestrians that she must've just ran past.

Down one more alleyway and up another—he was losing track of her. Finally, he saw her duck down another street, and he forced a burst of speed out of his tired legs, though he was in for a bit of a surprise. She had been waiting, pressed up against the side of the building, and before his mind registered that he was about to run past her, she caught his foot with her boot, and he flew forward into a pile of garbage—some broken crates here and there, and foodstuffs, too, from the smell of it.

She was about to run back the other way when he pulled the gun from his belt, aiming it well enough despite the fact his hand trembled from the recent fall and it was a fair way from the streetlights. She stopped the moment she heard the gun power up, though she waited to turn around.

"Do you really expect me to believe you'll shoot?" Despite her words, she kept still as he stood up, nearly stumbling in the debris around his feet.

"I could aim for a foot—if the Doc's got to amputate it, well," he paused with a chuckled. "Then I won't have to worry about you running away with what's mine."

"Why do you automatically assume I took something?" She turned around quickly, forgetting the gun still aimed in her direction.

He ignored her look with a raised brow and stern expression.

"Just because I left, you think I'm stealing from you? Shall I ask your permission next time? Say goodbye so you can sleep at ease?" She continued, becoming cross.

"Where ya heading at a time like this?" he asked, still regarding her with every bit of suspicion a woman like her deserved.

"None of your damn business," she snapped, though she was quick to add, "But I've got a smuggling run all set up for you into the Denebola. I left the details on your desk, and I'll be back to collect, _El Capitan_," she said mockingly, brushing off her skirt and throwing her hair over her shoulder.

He let the gun fall to his side, taking a step toward her though he certainly didn't put the weapon away. "What's got you running this time, Lenny? If it concerns me and my crew, I ought to know about it."

Her glare softened just slightly—just enough for him to notice. "It's personal. I don't want you involved," she replied, starting off in the other direction.

"Ha! You? Not involving me in your problems? Saints forgive me, but I can't be acceptin' this miracle." He followed her to the corner of the alley where she stopped, turning back to him.

"If you keep pressing—keep digging around—_you're_ the one who's going to put your crew in danger. If you have any sense of self-preservation, you'll leave well enough alone." She was already half-way around the corner, her hand pressed up against the building.

With narrowing eyes, he moved closer so as to catch a better glimpse of her face in the dull orange light. "Len, what have you gotten tangled in?"

"I'm taking care of it," she said quickly, past the point of arguing. She had little energy left for it, anyway.

"Let me help you," he replied quiet-like, keeping up a stern-gaze that made it seem like he wouldn't stand down.

"You're not the kind of man I'd like to be in debt to," she replied, shaking her head and leaving while he decided not to follow. "His name is Black Dog," she called back as she headed down the other alley. "Watch yourself, stupid!"

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)


	4. Digging Graves

_Date: 05.0-013.00_

_Place: Origine, Connaissance_

_I applied once again to the council this year. Perhaps something could actually change on this dust-infected planet were someone who was born after the Kaldean Riots to come to a status of power. The minds of Atherton, Beauchamp, Wickham, and the rest have spent the last decades rotting away into their old age, rendering their judgment almost completely ineffectual. Supposedly, were someone with a young mind and new ideas to voice their own opinions and, heaven forbid, change something, I think those poor old men would die right there in their chairs._

_They are far too stubborn in their ways._

_Dr. Messier was more than happy to voice my own thoughts when he found me at the cliff side once more. It seems he is one of the few souls who can look past the white towers of our own society and towards the undaunted horizon and the many galaxies past our atmosphere. I am sure I would surely lose my sanity if not for his companionship, if it even has the caliber of being called such._

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

"You've still got all of your limbs, Wilcott," Jim exclaimed with a laugh, sitting down in the chair at the man's bedside. The room was lit by gilt wall sconces, casting a warm glow over the rarely used furnishings that spoke more to his decorator's taste than his own. The apartment-style home was built upward more than out, as were the other lavish houses that shared the same street. Here in the upper-class area of the city, the air outside was much more still—the lights and sounds of friendly bars and taverns restricted to the bay.

"That I do!" Wilcott himself lay propped up half-way into a sitting position, blankets drawn up around him neatly although the man looked as if he had taken a plunge into the waters around Jour-Nuit.

"Then you shouldn't be lazing about in bed all day, old man," Jim replied, smiling. Creighton Wilcott was tall and on the thin side due to his increasing age. While he was surely no older than fifty, time had taken its toll cruelly, as displayed by his current situation.

"Yes, yes, but my daughter and the housekeeper are conspiring against me." The man laughed loudly, clutching the handkerchief in his fingers more tightly. "Barely a sniffle, and they put me on lockdown, nowadays." His pale face contorted into a pained expression for a moment before he coughed loudly into the cloth in his fist. A simple cough turned into a struggle to get air as he seemed likely to be face to face with his own lung soon.

Jim lifted a hand for a moment before putting it on the armrest as if intentionally, and after another moment Creighton lowered the handkerchief to his lap with a weary sigh. The cloth was black.

"It's not contagious," he relied, following Jim's eye. "Despite what the paper-pushers in the streets will have you believe."

"I'm aware," Jim responded quietly, looking at his acquaintance somberly.

People called it the black spot. Perhaps it would have a scientific name someday, if its cause and cure were ever found, but for now it went by a nickname stolen from pirate traditions of old. The black spot meant death—then and now.

"Oh, don't you be looking at me with those eyes the womenfolk got!" The older man had sharp eyes that when narrowed became sinister. "I'm not gunning to go just about yet. This here's only a cold. Only makes it worse. And no worse cold is gonna do me in just yet, you hear?"

"You? Of course not. You're too damn stubborn." Jim managed a smile.

"You're damn right I am!" he replied loudly, coughing again. When he finished, he seemed less angry, which put Jim a little more at ease. "So, boy, how was the trip?"

"Porto Bello's still the trash-infected hell-hole it's ever been, I assure you," he said with a laugh, trying to push the realization of the man's health from his mind. "You missed out on quite a bit of excitement."

"Ha! God, that city!" Wilcott let out a long breath, shaking his head with almost a smile. "I'm telling you—I'll get back out there. Make some trips of my own—maybe I'll pass them off as business somehow. Make myself feel better about it and all. Open sky, good ship… and some kinda crew. Don't have to be perfect, even. Just that. That's good enough."

Jim chuckled softly at the man's sudden reminiscing.

"You don't ever let her go, boy, you hear me?"

"Let… who?"

"_Victory._"

"Ah," Jim exclaimed with a laugh. That wasn't what he'd thought for a moment there.

"She's a good ship—you don't let anyone take her. That there's your ticket to the life some o' us let slip by," he said, pushing grey and brown hair out of his eyes. "_That_. That's the good life."

Jim was about to answer just as a small knock sounded at the chamber door. It opened hesitantly, Elena appearing in the narrow crack.

"Powell is here to see you, father." Her voice was quiet and polite.

"They can't survive a day without me at that warehouse, can they? Hrm, he can stew a bit out on the porch a while longer.."

"No need," Jim interrupted, standing. "I'm sure my uninvited guest has caused enough trouble downstairs that I should go get him." He smiled kindly at… well, his friend, patting the edge of the bed with a chuckle and dropping his voice so Elena wouldn't hear. "You should get your lazy ass out of this thing soon, got it?"

"Ha!" The man's laugh was more of a bark, but he smiled nonetheless, wishing him a farewell.

On the other side of the door, Elena stepped back sheepishly, turning down the hallway as Jim followed her toward the stairs. Once they were far enough from the room, but not yet downstairs, he forced himself to ask.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" He was unable to see her face as she responded, since she only half-turned to him a few steps below.

"The doctor we spoke to said it would… be a few years before it's too much for him." This was when she really looked up at him, and he caught the way the young girl's eyes glistened in the hall lights.

Jim opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but stopped himself. What was there to say? Her father would fall ill with something trivial—the flu, the common cold—but his body simply wouldn't be able to handle it. No explanation why. No cure. No stopping it, while his lungs filled up with black.

There was no way to be comforting.

"Elena?" Mrs. Sullivan's voice rose up the stairwell from the first floor, and she turned away quickly, reaching the bottom as the older woman came up to meet her.

Their housekeeper may have been old enough to have been Elena's grandmother, but it didn't show in any way except for the kind wrinkles around her yellow eyes. She was quick and was always appearing over Jim's shoulder without a sound whenever he called on the father and daughter, which was most likely a trait due to her species.

"B.E.N. hasn't been too much of a trouble down here, I hope," Jim remarked, causing Mrs. Sullivan's ears to perk up as she shifted her attention.

"Most helpful actually," she said, turning back into the kitchen across the carpeted hall where the robot sat at the small wooden table for preparing food, balls of yarn rolled up around him. He was tied in a lot of it, as well. "It's the pink one I'm wary of."

Morph zipped around B.E.N.'s shoulder, a long piece of string in his mouth as he trailed it along. Jim smirked, lifting a hand at the last moment, and Morph flew through his fingers in a gooey mess. He pulled himself back together a second later, though, leaving the string in Jim's hand as Elena smiled.

Handing it to the maid who tucked it into her apron, he gestured for B.E.N. to detangle himself before glancing at the other end of the hall. Powell was standing in the entryway, with the mein of someone about to get punished for something. He was young—not a child but still younger than Jim—and usually an enthusiastic worker. Always polite, always smiling. But now, his dark face was contorted into pure nervousness. He looked like he was going to be ill. Soon.

"Take care, ladies." Jim smiled, putting a hand on B.E.N.'s shoulder as he steered him toward the doorway. "We're scheduled to leave port in two days—I'll stop by to see how he's doing, if that's alright."

"Of course," Elena replied, forcing a smile. Her brown eyes looked almost green in this light.

As they left, Powell stepped out of the way, nodding at them both as he ran a hand across the top of his head, cleanly shaven of all his hair. "Be careful out there, Captain," he mumbled, forcing half his face into a smile.

Jim nodded, but didn't fail to notice the young man's odd behavior. Was it guilt? Something must not have gone well down at the warehouse. Or the shop. The boy was something of a go-between for the two properties, delivering messages and reports and such.

He pushed it from his mind once they reached the street, while Morph settled into his shoulder with a tired sigh.

"Jimmy!" B.E.N. exclaimed with a yawn—did he even _need_ to yawn? "I'm thinking it's about time to power down. What a day!"

Jim nodded, which seemed to be the only response he could manage. Something was picking at his brain. Something felt… not right.

.o.(o0o).o.

"I believe we found her, sir," said a tall Arcturian with pale, yellow-grey skin, as he ran up to meet the first mate in the longboat bay.

"How?" Wayland demanded as he disembarked, the captain off in another one of the longboats that would return back to the ship in a few minutes. He stepped out of the way for the men that had come with him as they headed up to the deck.

"Stroke of luck, I hear it," the man replied. "Heard a boy talking about her near the docks. _Coercing _him to led them to her as we speak, I s'pose. They'll have her hear in no time, now."

Leaving the ship at the smallest outpost on the dreadful planet had done them some good then. With one team searching Carib and the other Corbis, they had found her much faster than they had thought.

"When did Miller deliver that message?"

"Our man came back not three minutes ago, sir. They'll have her by now. Alls we gotta do is wait."

Wayland pushed past the man, heading up to the bridge.

Whoever this woman was, she was mighty difficult to find in the first place. He only hoped that the captain would be able to handle her once they caught her—and that she had what they were looking for so their searching wouldn't have been for naught.

.o.(o0o).o.

"Why am I not surprised you're returning alone?" Markose remarked as Avery climbed the steps up to the bridge where his first mate sat at the small wooden navigator's table. He had no papers laid out, however—his own or Reeves'.

"Hmph." Avery just scowled, leaning against the edge of the bridge dashboard, small lights and buttons twinkling in the dark. There was a lantern sitting on the table where Markose rested an arm, tipping his chair back in ease.

"I think we should discuss—"

"She's in something deep," Avery muttered, looking over to his left at the walls of the canyon and up to the dark blue sky overhead. "Why does the name Black Dog sound familiar?"

"She…" Looking cross, Markose lost his composure for only a moment—as usual when the captain interrupted him with such ramblings. "What does Black Dog have to do with her, Avery?"

"Not sure. But she's got herself tight in the middle of something, and I don't like it." With his arms over his chest, he was paying more attention to the view and his thoughts than the first mate.

"Black Dog is… dangerous to say the least, but Avery…?" Markose waited a moment for his dark eyes to refocus on the current conversation, the taller man looking back at him with raised brows. "Friend, you might want to remind yourself of one important thing."

"That is?"

"She didn't leave this ship empty-handed."

Avery returned a blank look.

"She took the journal."

The captain was quiet for a moment, before putting a hand to his jaw, wincing as if in physical pain.

"You caught up to her, didn't you?" Markose asked with a sigh.

"Mm-hmm." Avery nodded, his eyes distant as he bottled up his rage.

"And she talked you into forgetting that, didn't she?"

"Yep."

Markose returned all four legs of the chair to the deck, putting his hands on his knees as he shook his head. He looked over at his friend's dark and brooding expression before saying, "You're going to kill her this time, perhaps?" Wouldn't _that _solve things.

There was silence for a moment, though the captain's expression didn't change.

"Augustine."

Markose narrowed his eyes at the man, wishing he would quit his habit of speaking aloud his partial thoughts. "Sorry?" he asked in confusion.

"Black Dog's name. Augustine." He stopped leaning against the control panel, half-turning to look onto the lower deck. Running a hand through what light hair had fallen out of the band, his demeanor was hard to interpret—Markose couldn't tell if the man was worried or disappointed by this fact.

"He'll get to her before we ever do," Avery muttered.

Markose sighed in irritation, saying with a glower, "I suppose we'll be going after her then."

_Oh, what joy has befallen us…_


	5. Filling Them

We must accept life for what it actually is - a challenge to our quality without which we should never know of what stuff we are made, or grow to our full stature.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)

A high-pitched ringing started to fill Jim's ears, and with each breath he was more aware of the pressure inside of his skull as it threatened to explode.

"Finally coming to, man?" Someone's voice, muffled as the sound around him suddenly snapped back to the correct volume.

His eyes shot open only to be blinded by the bright sunlight overhead, and smoke hung in the air that scraped against his dry throat. It sent him coughing as he shifted slightly, feeling hard and unforgiving stone underneath his head.

"Slowly now," the same voice spoke again, its owner coming into focus as he loomed over him. A constable—Terran, like himself, though considerably shorter and older in age.

Jim sat up with every muscle protesting strongly, blinking a few times to make things clearer. The man standing over him was dressed in a traditional blue and grey uniform, presumably accompanied by at least two robo-constables in the distant background. He began to realize his hands were pressed against cobblestone and not the packed dirt of the dock area. This registered as an important fact in his mind, but he couldn't work out why exactly.

"Do you know what happened here?" The man had a forgettable face, and Jim was already ignoring him as he began to take in his surroundings.

He was lying in the street just outside of Wilcott's home-or what was left of it. The smoke that lay thick in the air was still rising from the ashen skeleton of the home. The upper floor had collapsed down into the first, making it almost impossible to recognize. But Jim knew it. And he knew there'd been four people inside of it when he'd left.

"Take a moment," the man continued, graying hair cut close to his skull. "Why were you out here, Captain?"

Jim looked up at him for a moment, trying to gather together his thoughts. Was it his appearance that gave away his title or had he woken up previously? No, that piece of information was irrelevant.

Why had he been out here?

"There were people inside, they—" He forgot where that thought was going.

He'd left, though, and then he ended up here on the street. What had happened in between?

He sat up a little more, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he did so. The sensation alone was enough to throw everything rushing back to his memory.

The bad feeling that he'd had upon leaving had been right—not moments after turning the corner a short block away, he'd gone back just to check on the house to ease his own mind. He knew how the unthinkable could happen in the blink of an eye, and he'd given in to the superfluous worries of his mind. A sliver of light had spilled out onto the street from where the front door had not been shut all of the way, and a crash from inside confirmed his suspicion that it wasn't by mistake.

B.E.N. had ingored his command to stay behind, following him down the alley between the two houses towards the back door. Jim carried a pistol with him only when in the worst of ports, and so being in Carib, he had only a knife which was concealed in his boot. Motioning for B.E.N. to be quiet, he crept closer to the back door.

Mrs. Sullivan's scream from inside was followed by the door exploding open as a man tumbled out, falling against the fence in a crumpled heap. There was the sharp smell of burning cloth and flesh—he'd been shot with a handheld plasma gun. Not cheap.

There was movement in the doorway, and Jim crouched behind the bins against the house, trying to figure out how many there were before he could get inside. Christ, where was—?

Elena stepped over the threshold and stopped when Jim stood up quickly, Mrs. Sullivan standing close behind. Both women were disheveled and upset, and he noted the fact that the young woman was holding a gun loosely in one hand, her face flush with tears.

"Captain!" She exclaimed, taking a step forward while her housekeeper shakily followed. He put a hand on her shoulder, about to ask what in the etherium was going on when the upstairs window shattered and they all instinctively ducked a bit, a gust of hot wind rushing out as flames consumed the drapes. "My father—!"

"Get the girl!"

There was a commotion in the kitchen and shadows in the doorway, and Jim let her go, moving past them and shouting, "Get out of here!"

He had heard B.E.N.'s voice—perhaps he had followed them—as a man stepped through the doorway with a cutlass raised. The man wasn't expecting to see him, so he had enough time to push the sword away and knock him back into his friend. Scratch that—_friends. _There were two more, with other voices from deeper inside the home, and just as Jim wondered how he was possibly going to get to the second floor without getting shot, something had crashed into the back of his head from the alleyway.

And then he woke up here, on the street.

Jim picked himself up, looking around for… anyone.

"Careful there, man," the constable exclaimed, stepping back with a concerned look.

"Did they get out? Did you find anyone inside?" His words jumbled together a bit, but the man understood him well enough.

"Just the one inside. Owner of the home, we believe. Mr. Wilcott," he replied.

Although he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, Jim would always hate himself for the wave of relief that also swept over him in that moment. "Elena—his daughter. Did you find her? Their housemaid, Mrs. Sullivan?"

The other man turned back to look at the other officers standing a bit closer to the house. "The maid's gone down to the station house to help sort things out." Jim didn't like the pause. "We're not sure about the young lady, as of yet."

God _damn_ it all.

"Where's—?" Jim muttered under his breath, looking over his shoulder and seeing nothing but other officers in blue coats. "There was an antique AI with me, have you—?"

"JEREMY GLASS WAS OLD AND CRASS," an obnoxiously loud voice sang from down the street. "DEFIED THE BRASS WITH A FLASH OF HIS-

"B.E.N.!" Jim shouted—half in surprise and half in embarrassment. The officer cringed, motioning for him to follow as they made their way towards a medical wagon whose staff could do little to help their patient who was sitting on the sidewalk just beside.

"He's been shouting and uh, singing, ever since they got him back online. Unfortunately, he won't let anyone get near him to fix the wires hanging out of his head. Starts yelling every time we get close." The man stopped a few feet back while Jim continued on. Other than the fact his primary memory circuit was hanging on by a wire and that he could do with a good shining, the robot looked okay.

He was staring at him with a crazed look, though, but was quiet so far until Jim got close enough to touch him. He pointed a long, jointed finger at him, exclaiming, "I _know_ you!"

Jim nodded, crouching down beside him. "Yes, B.E.N., I know you too. Now, let me…"

"I'm not telling you where she is!" He said loudly, but not quite at a shout, turning his head up and away from the young captain. "You can't make me! I promised, and when B.E.N. makes a promise, he never ever breaks it, you hear me? Threaten me all you want. I'd _rather_ you disassemble me than tell!"

"Fine. Just let me fix—" Jim reached out a hand, but hesitated as the robot broke out into hysterical sobbing.

"Okay, OKAY! I'll tell you! She's down at the docks! I _told _her not to go, but she wouldn't listen. He's trouble! I think you're an old fart just as much as she does, but I agree with you there. Oh, why? Why won't she leave him—ALONE?" On that last word, Jim smacked him, wincing as he did so.

"B.E.N. get a grip and hold still!" This quieted the robot just long enough for him to replace his loose wires, his friend's eyes turning back from green to blue.

"Whoa! What happened there? I—I—I think I blacked out for a minute!" He exclaimed with wide eyes. "And woke up with an odd desire to sing sea-shanties."

Jim rolled his eyes, pulling the robot to his feet impatiently. "B.E.N., what happened to Elena?" In response to the confused look on the AI's face, he continued. "Last night, B.E.N.! Did you go with them?"

He shook his head quickly enough to make himself dizzy. "I dunno, Jimmy! When we got out onto the street, she went the other way—back to the house. Said something about her dad, I think! Oh, um, gosh, I dunno. It all happened so fast, I uh—!" B.E.N. squirmed a little under his gaze. "Pirates! Right, the pirates! They came out the front door, and they... We, uh, me and that nice lady, we were already down the street by the time we noticed she had turned around. Then, uh, there was a, um, crash. Or something. Oh, Jimmy, they took her!" he finished with a sorrowful face.

There was a long stretch of silence before the constable from before spoke up, having listened to the robot's story. "Come along, then. We need to get this down on the record, if you wouldn't mind." B.E.N. cast a heartbroken look his way before heading off while Jim remained where he was for a moment, looking over at the ruins of the home.

They took her.

Why would they take her?

"Excuse me, officer?" Jim caught up to the man a second later, his body running mechanically while his mind went into overdrive. "There was a young man there last night. He works… worked for Wilcott. Victor Powell. Did you find him?"

The man shook his head. "No, but I'll have someone go pick him up. If you wouldn't mind, Captain, we'd like to get some more information from you. Won't take long—we want to find this girl, too."

The sympathetic smile on the man's face did little to reassure him.

.o.(o0o).o.

"The local constabulary renewed a warrant for Mary Williams' arrest," Markose Napier commented as he entered Avery's office, sidestepping a bright green potted monstrosity that had fallen just inside the door. The opening comment was rather vague, but it was met with no question, so Markose continued. "He runs with Augustine, the last I heard of him. I think you were right-Black Dog is definitely looking into the area already."

The captain was standing near the concave yellow window, one arm propped on the tall bookcase to his left. His fingers tapped the glass while his other hand rested in his pocket, where-with keen ears-one could hear the clock of several small coins that he absentmindedly counted. Markose took a deep breath, recognizing the habit and dreading actions that would follow suit.

"There was also a fire in the residential district last night. Someone spotted a group of sailors with them—Mary included—so we could suppose..."

Avery stopped fiddling with the coins, and Markose hardly saw the point in continuing since he was soon to be interrupted.

"…All confirmed by the rumor that's spreading through town this morning," he started hesitantly. "The _Aerosea_ was seen around the equator, not two hundred miles from—"

Avery swept an arm across the top of the bookcase, sending the empty brass cage and the items stacked inside flying across the room where it hit the floor with a reverberating clange. It knocked over a stack of books, causing the papers that had been atop them to scatter across the floor. Markose stood quietly with his usual irritated expression while Avery settled into the high backed chair with his elbow on the desk and a hand covering his eyes, the other curled into a fist so tight that his knuckles turned white.

While Markose sympathized with the man's anger, he did not share it. At best, the strongest emotion he could tie to the whole situation was a dreadful annoyance. Keeping with his own sense of morality, he would never wish the woman any physical harm. Still, he had to admit that things would be decidedly uncomplicated in her absence. He certainly could have done without the past few years of cleaning up the mess-filled situations that she always managed to drag back onboard.

Were she to stay missing, it might have actually been better for her and the captain.

"I suppose those rumors," Avery finally spoke, through clenched teeth. "Didn't include their direction, did they?" He dropped his hand to the desk, still looking mightily cross.

"No."

With a muttered curse, he looked across the room, avoiding Markose's gaze, saying, "The navy's got too tight a hold of the West, and they won't have gone east near Cangaria during this time of year."

Markose nodded, adding, "Weymouth and Hydra are the closest ports to the North, but the South seems most likely. Porto Bello is big enought hide them, and perhaps—"

"He won't go there," Avery said quickly as he glared down onto the papers that covered his desk, declining to offer any explanation.

"...Very well. Weymouth or Hydra. Of course, depending on their supplies, they could go right between the two and through Widowmaker's Crossing." The nebula was dangerous and aptly named, but not completely uncrossable, and once on the other side, they could go anywhere.

The other man remained silent, looking down at either his hands or the old cargo and crew lists they rested on. "You need to make a decision, Avery." His words were met with silence, and he was unsure if he was being ignored intentionally or as a result of the man's thinking process. "Of course, you might consider the more practical alternative—"

"No."

His look of mild irritation turned to frustration. "Nickolas—"

"Do you realize what kind of man he is?" Avery's voice rose loudly. "The stories they tell about him? Unlike ours—those are real. He is insane, and the men he commands don't rank much better."

"You need to consider the well being of your crew, then. Not one of them will follow you against him. They are not _imbeciles_—like how _you_, my friend, will be remembered if you actually confront him," he replied strongly.

Avery stood up, the chair tipping back precariously for a moment. He appeared as if he might continue the argument, but for a split second, a look of helplessness crossed his expression which he was quick to drop. His hands brushed the surface of the desk as he shook his head, looking across the room.

"She has the journal," he said after a moment in a composed, steady voice. "I'll be damned if I let that man get his hands on it."

As a question sprung to his lips, Napier opened his mouth without hesitation, catching himself at the last moment. He knew this new venture had more to do with the woman than the journal, so he turned the conversation towards the odd tone he caught in Avery's voice toward the end of that last declaration.

"You've met him," Napier concluded aloud.

The captain looked at him as if he were deciding just how much to say. "Not yet," he answered quietly, pushing the chair back and turning back toward the window, crossing his arms.

Unconvinced, Napier dropped the matter for the now, leaving before anything else was thrown.

.o.(o0o).o.

"It's been over twenty-four hours, and all I've been told is that a pirate vessel slipped by your border patrol, heading North? There has to be _someone_ who can tell me what's going on!" Jim's voice was a little louder than he or the officer behind the wooden desk cared for, and he made an attempt to look a bit more calm. "Please, I need to know if they've found any sign of her."

"We can't discuss the full details of an open investigation with the public. I'm sorry, Captain." The man looked over at him with sympathetic eyes, moving as if to get down from the tall chair. "I can contact the officer who took your record earlier, if you like. Perhaps he—"

"No," Jim replied, stopping him before he could. "I apologize for taking up your time," he said politely, leaving the office in a hurry. Outside, it was almost mid-day, and the streets were busy with foot traffic, wagons, and carts. He made his way down the main road without a destination in mind, mulling over things uninterrupted since B.E.N. holed up in his room at a local inn.

Elena had been missing for over a day now, and if the police had any idea about what happened to her, they weren't about to inform him. What was there to do?

Wilcott… was a good man—a good friend—and his daughter was in danger. With no other family to speak of, who else was there to look out for her besides himself? He owed it to the old man and to her.

As far as he could find out, no one had seen Powell since last night, which made walking to the warehouse a completely useless venture. He stopped, realizing that's where his feet had been taking him automatically. With a frustrated scrowl, he turned down a different street, returning to his room and a, most likely, restless B.E.N. His run in with these pirates had done nothing to help his nerves, and Jim cringed at the thought of his incessant verbal worryings.

Apparently, though, it wasn't the only thing awaiting him once he got there.

"Jimmy!" B.E.N. jumped to his feet, sending Morph into a tumbling spiral off of his shoulder.

The room was brightly lit from the two windows that opened out to the street, but he stepped inside hesitantly, noticing a figure sitting at the table at the other end. The young man sprung to his feet when he heard B.E.N. say his name, pulling the patched hat from his shaven head only to grip it tightly in his nervous hands.

"Captain! I…" He trailed off as his face turned from excitement to guilt once again. "I wasn't sure… I mean, I didn't know where—" He visibly moved back a bit when Jim rushed forward, about to demand answers for all of the questions that had been plaguing his mind. He stopped himself, though, instead trying to remain levelheaded so that Powell would do likewise.

"The police are looking for you."

The young man's dark features twisted into a cringe. "I know, sir, but I… I've made a mistake. I couldn't speak up, sir. I wasn't sure they'd understand!"

"Well, try _me_. What happened last night? What happened to Elena?" He almost had to bite his tongue to stop just there.

Powell opened his mouth but couldn't seem to know where to start. "It was… It's my fault, sir, I—I told them, but they didn't say anything about… I just mean…" While Jim was used to listening to stuttering, incoherent sentences, he was still growing impatient. "We were on the dock, sir. Just closing up, me and some of the boys. They were… making fun. At Elena. Well, no! Not at her—at me. I, uh, sorta fancy her a bit. We just got to talking, and when I left to go home, this man… he kinda pulls me aside the street. Pulls a gun out 'n says he heard me say her name—said he was looking for her dad. Threatens to kill me—and her!—if I didn't take him to where they was. So I did. He didn't say anything about his other men—or that they were gonna take her!" His eyes were wide with fear still.

It was quiet for a moment while Jim tried to process, but he eventually said, "Powell, you need to go to the police. If you can remember what they looked like, it could help, maybe—"

"That's just it! It was dark. I couldn't see their faces too good. I got no helpful information—just the fact I told them where they was!" He exclaimed, eyes still wide. "And now she's gone and Master Wilcott's dead…"

Jim rubbed his eyes with a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose as he winced at the mental onslaught of frustration. He took a deep breath, however, clamping a hand down on the young man's shoulder. "This isn't because of you. Don't give the constabulary a reason to blame you by doing it yourself," he said quietly. "But you do need to go talk to them, even if… you can't remember anything you _think_ is useful."

Still looking fretfully guilty, he nodded slowly for a bit before straightening with a slightly hopeful expression. "I do know one thing: they had to be sea-faring men. I mean, I know we got a lotta folk from all different parts around here, but their weapons weren't from anywhere nearby—they don't let you bring some o' that around here."

Jim gave a half-hearted smile. "That's good. Remember to tell them that."

"Yes, I know they were. One of them mentioned they had to hurry and get back to Augustine," he continued. "And Augustine's the capitol of Selk Territory south o' Rommer's Nebula, ain't it?"

"…Yes." Had he heard the name as well last night? It sounded familiar, in any case. "That's exactly what you need to tell the _police_, Powell. Now hurry."

The young man nodded, ducking out of the room quickly.

Jim sat down at the table, all of his energy suddenly draining away. He rested his head in one hand while he heard B.E.N. take the seat opposite him. Thankfully, though, he was quiet for the time being.

Jim still couldn't remember anything remotely useful from last night, but at least now the police would have a possible location to work with… his hand slammed down on the surface of the table, causing B.E.N. and Morph to jump.

"It's not a city!" He stood up quickly, looking to grab his coat before realizing he'd never even taken it off.

"…Uh, what? It's… what's what then?" B.E.N. was following him out of the room.

"Augustine," Jim explained as they left the inn, quickly pushing through the crowd outside. "It sounded familiar. I thought I'd heard one of them say it last night, but I didn't. I remember—I heard one of them make a joke."

"Augustine isn't a city… it's a joke?"

Jim stopped, turning to B.E.N. so that he didn't have to shout back at him as they walked. "I heard a man say that 'he' would use them for chew toys if they messed it up. It makes perfect sense. Why would they go to a tiny little town like Augustine? There's too much of a Naval presence there. Don't you get it? Augustine isn't a place—it's a name," he exclaimed. "The pirates… they were talking about their captain. Matthew Augustine. Or as most people refer to him: Black Dog."

The unsure look on B.E.N.'s face wouldn't be the last he would see that day.

.o.(o0o).o.

"You are acting irrationally." Onyx was standing behind him with a look of absolute disagreement. "Honorable, to be sure, but completely and utterly reckless."

"I didn't tell you because I wanted advice," Jim replied, setting the dull tan pack down on the creaking floorboards at his feet. He gave his desk a once-over, checking for anything he may have forgotten or neglected to take care of in preparation for his absence. "I told you because I'm going."

"Where will you even begin? You are the last one who needs to be reminded of the size of this galaxy, my friend," he said solemnly. "I also need not remind you that we are not keepers of the law any longer. The authorities have greater numbers and therefore greater leads. You are one man."

"I'm the _only_ man who's looking in the right place! They refuse to believe me—they're going to send some men all the way out to Selk Territory, and they're going to come back empty-handed," Jim said. "They're going to be looking in the wrong direction, since they refuse to believe that pirates could be involved. Not one piracy-related incident in five years, and they refuse to look into that North-bound ship because if it turns out to be true, it looks bad on their records!"

Onyx took a deliberate breath. "You have to admit it sounds far-fetched. Augustine's a fairly reputable pirate—what use would he have for her? Or for killing her father?" He may have been speaking out of concern, but it wasn't exactly helping at the current moment.

"…I don't know, but—"

"Because it doesn't make sense," the taller man finished.

"It's the only explanation that really fits!" Jim held back the rest of his reply for a moment, looking at the organized contents of his desk if just to avoid speaking. After the room grew quiet, he continued his defense, saying, "I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it was the best shot. And since they refuse to believe me, I'll just have to figure something out on my own. Besides, I have connections they don't."

Well, that was just speculation.

"And even if I didn't," Jim said. "I'll make some. I'm not going to let something happen to that girl. Not when I should have…" Shaking his head, he lifted the pack over his shoulder, exiting the stateroom without so much as a glance toward his Cragorian friend.

"There is no blame to be assigned from this situation." The man's loud voice followed him out to the bridge, though it went quietly ignored. "I am not suggesting I do not care, James. I want justice for her family and for her safe return, but this is not the way to do it."

Jim stopped for a moment, squinting as he turned around to face him since he was temporarily blinded by the bright sunlight.

"Where will you even look?"

Jim shook his head for a moment, his eyes adjusting as he looked out over the clean deck, devoid of crew. "The ship was heading north. I'll find a ride a Weymouth first—see if anyone's seen it there. Then…" _What next_? As long as he wasn't sitting around, though, he felt as if he was accomplishing _something_.

Onyx didn't nod or ask anymore questions. He was silent for a moment before heading over to the helm, picking up a spherical device from the dashboard there. His large hands clumsily tugged the wires from the console, and he handed this as well as a small square screen over to the captain.

"Then take this with you," he said with a solemn look.

Jim started to argue, but stopped himself, saying, "I suppose you won't be needing it. At least I'm hoping you won't run into any trouble near Tamarind." He finished this with a laugh, but Onyx didn't smile.

Jim looked down at the gilded sphere in his hands for a moment before tucking it into his pack. The thing always perplexed him, since it obviously shared a connection with the same type of technology that had housed the map to Treasure Planet all those years ago. This device, however, showed a much more updated map, allowing the user to see islands and ships at ranges much farther than the eye could reach. Ever since they had picked it up from those pirates back in their Navy days, it had become essential to ensuring a safe trip, though it sometimes filled him with bad memories.

Onyx put a heavy hand on his shoulder for a moment before saying, "Good luck, then, my friend."

Jim nodded with a growing sense of dread. He was really going to do this.

"You, too."


End file.
